Outbursts of Brotherly Compassion
by The Feisty Rogue
Summary: Mycroft is not prone to outbursts of brotherly compassion.


The morgue is cool, but Mycroft prefers it to the homely warmth of 221B and its crackling fire. Irene Adler is dead and Sherlock is being infuriating. Sobs disrupt the pattern of their conversation, the light banter back and forth over what had been Adler's prized possession; something that she would give up her life for. Mycroft can already tell that Sherlock has no intention of giving him Adler's phone.

They both glance at the source of the noise. There's a family crying as the surgeon tells them that their daughter died on the operating table after a drunk driver crashed his car into hers.

"Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" Sherlock sneers. Mycroft doesn't know whether apathy is inversely proportional to intelligence, although some might suspect so if they were to interview the Holmes brothers. Perhaps it follows an exponential distribution. Perhaps not. Science was always Sherlock's speciality and he's unbothered about determining the truth.

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.," Mycroft says, and he knows, in his very bones, that he is lying to himself. Not about the disadvantageous side effects of caring, of course not, he's known that truth for years. He's lying because despite that disadvantage, he still cares. He thinks Sherlock does too, sometimes, although certainly not about him. This is the first time Sherlock's shown interest in a woman in a more than professional capacity. It's a form of caring, no matter how oblique.

"This is low tar," Sherlock retorts, glaring at the cigarette as if it has deeply offended him. It's one of Adler's. Mycroft had stolen it from the sealed bag of her possessions. Mycroft's just glad that's all it is, for the moment. He hopes desperately that it will stay that way. Sherlock likes to pretend he's kicked his habit, but it's there, in the one cigarette he allows himself a year, in the nicotine patches he wears too frequently, in the long days where Sherlock lays on his sofa, a gun in his hand, and Mycroft's glad the only thing he shoots is the wall.

Sentiment. It disgusts him. But it's haunts him, lying in wait when he thinks he's finally rid of it, in the form of a phone call from the hospital informing him that Sherlock has overdosed, or the patient explanation of DI Lestrade informing him his brother has taken on yet another serial killer, and escaped only through the kindness of his new flat mate's gun.

"Well, you barely knew her," Mycroft says, for lack of an answer. He doesn't give a damn about the cigarette he'd only offered to see if Sherlock would take.

"Huh." It's an amused sound and Sherlock half quirks a grin, as if to say; but I did. He's always been arrogant. It's a family trait.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft," Sherlock calls as he walks away. Mycroft bites back a sigh. That's perhaps the most civil conversation he's had with his brother in years. Mummy would be proud. It's probably thanks to the cigarette. Sherlock was always easier to get along with when the itch of cravings was soothed.

"And a Happy New Year," he retorts. Sherlock taps ash onto the floor as he strides away. Mycroft pulls his phone from his pocket and hits speed dial four. John Watson picks up.

"He's on his way. Have you found anything?" He doesn't know which answer is better. Yes, because it means that Sherlock can't access his stash. No, because perhaps this time it's for good and there's no stash waiting for Sherlock to obliterate his sorrows with. Yes and no, because Sherlock is in the top five most intelligent people in the country and if he chooses to hide something, then hidden it will be.

"No. Did he take the cigarette?" John asks. Well. He's hardly surprised.

"Yes," Mycroft says. Unfortunately. Would Sherlock have taken the cigarette regardless? Did Sherlock take it for the sole purpose of screwing with Mycroft's head? Claiming that it was a 'Christmas present' was a poor excuse for offering one to Sherlock. Had he seen through the charade? One could never tell, with Sherlock.

"Shit," John mutters, grounding Mycroft from his thoughts. "He's coming, ten minutes," John informs Mrs Hudson.

"There's nothing in the lounge," she replies, muffled faintly by her distance from the phone, a little over a meter and a half, he suspects.

"It looks like he's clean, we've tried all the usual places." As if Sherlock couldn't hide a stash of drugs if he chose to. "Are you sure tonight's a danger night?"

"No. But then I never am." He's never sure when it comes to Sherlock. The one truly unpredictable variable in his life. He even finds he's not ashamed to admit that failure. "You have to stay with him, John."

"But I've got plans."

Mycroft bites back a scoff. As if he cares whether a civilian's plans are ruined because Sherlock might be in danger, if only from himself.

"No," Mycroft says and hangs up. John will do the right thing. He always does. He hopes Sherlock will, as well.

* * *

 _Dialogue from His Law Vow, Sherlock (TV)._


End file.
